


Satellite in the Broken Night

by Diz_Insomnia



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Agency-University Balance, Angst, Canon Compliant, Choi Twin Feels, Gen, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 11:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16428116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diz_Insomnia/pseuds/Diz_Insomnia
Summary: Chilyoung would rather bask in academic achievement, but there’s no place for that when 707 Extreme has work to be done.





	Satellite in the Broken Night

Envy doesn’t occur to him often, at least not as often as, he thinks, he’s capable of. But it creeps on him, sometimes, like a cat in the dark. It pounces and it’s too late; he’s stuck with a head swirling with a fine cocktail of fear and regret. And sleep deprivation. He hopes God will be kind.

It’s post-midterms of his final university semester and he should be celebrating, watching his dorm mates get sloppy drunk while begging for Chilyoung’s mercy when it comes to smashing the bell curve. And he should be doing _that_ for his own damn satisfaction.

Not as part of the terms for his employment. As well as, heavily implied but that was more than enough, terms for his continued existence.

It’s pissing down rain and the world is shattered on his right side, broken lens, but the flash drive down his boxers burns with a stay of execution. He’s crouched down in an alley dumpster with the rest of the trash, heart throbbing so hard that he hears echoes and the groan of straining ribs. It’ll explode, he thinks, or bust out of his body _Aliens_ -style. He catches fading shouts, boot treads thundering through pond-deep puddles. The ground shudders under him, but he can’t untangle imagined sensations from reality. He needs a good year’s sleep and, maybe, someone to pat his head and tell him everything will turn out well, but there’s a paper for computer engineering ethics due in five hours that needs one to write. Forget about comfort from Vanderwood.

Not that it isn’t nice to stagger back for them to shove him at the shower and dump canned soup in the microwave. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s had before.

He blinks; in that sliver of a millisecond of a second, he’s at the dorm party, warm and safe with thoughts colored blissfully of college stress alone. Saeran sits at his side with a familiar little half-smile while they watch chaos from the comfortable sobriety of the storm’s eye. What would Saeran study? Is he studying? Did V and Rika, half a world away, support him going to university? He can’t imagine Saeran being disinterested. Maybe he’s studying meteorology, swimming in the sky’s mysteries, assigning meaning to the clouds he adores. Maybe, after graduation, they’d be storm chasers.

707 Extreme smacks his face, stars popping behind his eyes. He’s cold and tired but, more than that, he is an agent. On a mission that could end in his death or, worse, torture. He needs focus. He needs to shed empty daydreams.

He needs to put more distance between him and Clover Ind. He shifts to his knees, trying not to think about the trash rustling beneath him, and listens. He holds his breath and his heart thuds with distinctly less terror; he hears more rain than anything else. A good sign that they’ve assumed him gone, maybe, or they’re fanning out further. Either way, chasing the ring from the inside should be safer than waiting for them to constrict and sweep the proximity more thoroughly.

Unless, of course, they’ve called in enough backup to do both at once. His luck _does_ suck that much.

He considers signaling Vanderwood for extraction for all of a second; he’d rather avoid the dressing down about the fuck ups at Clover Ind. He’s very well aware, thank you, he’s boiling in them like a frog. It’d be better to emphasize his competence under duress rather than his bullshit. 

Even if competence entails a dumpster dive or three. Better than other places.

He pops the lid and, using the faint light from the distant street lamp, he shifts through the garbage for anything useful. There’s the usual detritus of greasy burger wrappers and crushed cups, shattered glass that makes him eternally grateful for the recent tetanus shot. Then he sees it through the unbroken side of the world, limp in the shadows like a skinned pelt. He tugs it free. The long coat reeks of sour human misery, massive and shaggy and desperately ugly. He slides it on, tucks his hair under the hood, checks the pockets before shoving his half-broken glasses in one. The plan’s half-cocked and he feels that drifting detachment between eyeballs and brain that suggest he’s in for one hell of a crash. 

But 707 is scarily competent and gets shit done. And he can push back the crash with his favorite mixed drink: Dr. Pepper and Red Bull.

He staggers away, playing at destitute desolation. No direction, unpleasant to the eyes of society. It comes easily.

He keeps to the alleys, the dark patches where light cannot reach. When pushed in the halos of artificial light, he slows his strides to a distinctly listless amble. He’s lost everything, everyone he’s ever loved. All he has is a distressingly filthy coat and the cold autumn rain.

He can’t tell if he’s acting or not. He can’t even tell figment from reality, his brain gone white noise fuzzy.

He passes the wrought iron gates of an ancient church and sees the ghosts of him and Saeran crouching on the flagstones.

They stare, puffy eyes limned with the rust of recently shed tears. A fist twisted from a black hole punches down, into his guts, as his throat burns with fierce intention to sputter it out. Envy, longing, mourning: none will help his survival. He swallows, ignoring the acrid taste, the collision of brain matter against skull as it throbs in an agonizing pace set by his racing heart.

Saeyoung holds on and stares back.


End file.
